


Black Death drabbles/ficlets

by kabrox18



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, I LIKE THE NAME BLACK DEATH OK......
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8484895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/kabrox18
Summary: various pieces i've written for these edgy loser friends





	1. Meeting

The meeting was uncomfortably quiet. Widowmaker sat neatly, ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap. She was relaxed, unlike Reaper, who looked like a badly-posed statue. His back was too straight and he sat firmly, unmoving from his place, staring ahead mutely. As much as she loathed to admit it, he really did look like a corpse that someone had sat in a chair. Finally, it was over; he was one of the last out, if not  _ the  _ last. It didn't matter. She lingered to meet him, but he simply strode past her in his typical manner, betraying nothing.

“Reaper,” she called, moving to follow him. He said nothing to acknowledge her, but he didn't shoo her off, either. He stopped only when he reached his door, staring at the metal as if he could will it open. The sniper stayed at his side, watching the way his shoulders didn't move.

“Well?” He finally said, head turning to fix her with that blank stare.

“You didn't like the meeting.”

“I have failed. Why  _ would _ I like it?” She said nothing, staring at the black sockets in the mask.

“You didn't like it.” She couldn't find the right words to express what she wanted to say in English--repetition would have to do. He grunts noncommittally, turning his gaze back to the door as his outline blurs. She raises her eyebrows slightly as he watches him melt down to fog, roiling around in the air before sliding under the jamb. Not surprising. He doesn't care for guests and with her standing there, he didn't want to put in his door code.

Typical.

\------

He’s silent, standing firm in the train. One bear-sized hand is wrapped around a handle, his eyes fixed on the ground as he waits for them to get to their objective. Widowmaker is seated beside him, butt of her rifle set loose against her thigh, barrel laid against her ankle. She watches him, wondering what’s running through his head. She entertains a few ideas; mostly of him thinking about killing. That is his motif, after all. 

“Reaper,” she begins, lifting her eyes from her hands to fix them on his mask. He doesn't move.

“What.” It's less a question and more a demand--it doesn't stop her.

“You look tired,” she said, shaking her head. “ _ Non,  _ that is not right. You look… annoyed. Impatient.” She waved a hand around, gesturing vaguely in his direction. He scoffs, looks up to her.

“How do you figure?” Now he sounds suspicious.

“Your posture.” He stiffens, shoulders squaring as he stands too-straight again.

“Better?”

“That is not what I meant. I am… not  _ good _ at expressing some things in English. The words come out crooked and I do not wish to confuse you.”

“Try me,” he growls, hand going a bit tighter. She can see it in the way his starkly exposed bicep swells the tiniest bit, knuckles flexing in the leather of his gloves.

“Ah… I do not even know where to start. The way you stand, I see your hand shifting constantly. You stare at the ground as if to hide your face. Something is--what's the phrase? Rubbing you the odd way?”

“Close enough. I'm fine, though. Besides, why would you care?” More suspicion and she feels flustered, not knowing what words to say and how.

“You are agitated and that may bring negative results in our mission. I just wish to ease you.”

“Spider.  _ Why do you care. _ ” She looks away, slanting her gaze off to the side. She can't look those empty sockets straight on, has to see them out of the corners of her eyes.

“I remember you were upset with our last debrief.”

“So?”

“I do not enjoy seeing you upset. It is…unease-inducing.”

“That's the  _ point. _ ” He sounds irritated and she closes her eyes, leaning back in the chair.

“You are stubborn,” she points out, and he says nothing, but she hears the  _ tap-tap-tap _ of his bizarrely light footsteps as he turns to face away from her.


	2. Mercy

He can only avoid her so much, and even then she finds some way to linger with him. The smell of her faint perfume clings to his chest where she grasped him in a panicked hug, fear written in the way her golden eyes darted around frantically, like a spider scrambling to hide from the human with the can of insecticide. He places his back to the wall, eyes fixing on one point as he waits in ambush. His body buzzes, alive with sensation and thought. Fresh bodies were a rare treat and he’d gotten his hands on three. One thought that sticks in his skull like the groggy sleep of Ana’s darts is how much she bothered to try and get him to open up on the hypertrain. He can badger her about it later--his mind returns to the thought of hunting down this Overwatch pest. Sure enough, he comes over for the medkit nestled in an alcove; Reaper attacks out of nowhere and the archer is forced to retreat fully, squirreling himself away in the confines of their start point. He paces in front of the IFF-sensitive energy barrier, shoulders hunched as he stalks one way, then the other. A trio of them watches him almost fearfully; Soldier: 76 may know his identity and who he was before but for these youths, all they know is the mythos and rumor surrounding his name. It's satisfying, seeing fear like that in so many pairs of eyes.

Something stops him, dead center in front of the field. He smells _ her _ . His hackles raise up, hands tightening around his shotguns as he stares down the Swiss woman. She stares right back, no sign of fear on her face.

“What happened to you?” She sounds  _ curious  _ and he wants to cut her open with nothing but his claws, to  _ gut _ her, to  _ feed _ off her entrails, to  _ end  _ her. It makes his hands shake, knuckles surely white under the black material.

“You tell  _ us, _ doc.” The hiss feels wrong, but her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline as a smile cracks her porcelain face in two.

“Us? Are you experiencing multiple personality disorder, Reaper?” She sounds amused and he screams, long and guttural, as he drops his guns, dragging his talons into the energy barrier, leaving looming glowing lines. Everyone backs up except Angela; she comes  _ closer _ .

“You would be fascinating to study.”


	3. Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some throwing up and the like so watch your butts, folks

He’s pacing, now.

_ Tap-tap-tap-turn-tap-tap-tap. _ His strides are long, and he’s making the most horrible  _ ragged _ noises that bring out instinctive fears that can't be buried with reconditioning. He doesn't stop pacing when she moves, shuffling away slightly. A doctor comes in, face and body tucked away behind scrubs.

“Reaper. Stop pacing.” It's an order, but the dead man just turns, looming dangerously.

“ _ You have no power over us, _ ” he snarls, voice echoing with a far deeper harmony that pitches the whole thing down inhumanly. He’s shaking like he’s drunk too much caffeine (it happened to Gérard sometimes) and jerking like he’s the puppet of someone with Tourette's. Widowmaker says nothing. It isn't her place. She’s technically even in rank with Reaper, although some of the higher ups had a distaste for him due to his  _ mercenary _ status.

“Reaper,” the doctor resumes, having got him to stop pacing like a caged animal, “I need you to lay down. If you do not comply, you know there will be repercussions.”

“ _ We don't care. _ ” Him--it--they snapped, gurgling out the words and sounding like there was something lodged in that covered throat.

“I will put a tranquilizer into you.”

“ _ Many bodies cannot be stopped by one attack, _ ” comes the reply, and Widowmaker shakes her head, stepping close and between them. She is facing the monster that calls itself Reaper, her back to the doctor.

“Will you lay down?” She asks, softly, and the creature pauses--hesitates, seeming to metaphorically scent the air in search of threats.

“ _ Why? _ ”

“You are sick. This doctor wishes to help you.”

“ _ We do not want help, _ ” it scoffs, shaking its head in annoyance. She decides in a split second that to get it fixed, she will take risks. One discolored hand slowly comes up, directly in its field of view. She is careful not to move quickly, slowing her breathing just as she does during a difficult shot. It shifts, leaning away; she continues on that slow movement path, slipping fingers under that black cowl. The release is small but she gets it, and gently pulls the mask away, cradling it in one hand as if it were glass.

The creature in front of her is a far cry from anything human--too many eyes, too many teeth, no nose and all the wrong shape. It gives a shuddering little gasp, something Widowmaker has never witnessed.

“Will you lay down?” She repeats the question, much softer now--gentler--and it nods slowly, the sniper stepping aside as it shuffles to the table, still shaking like it's had too much coffee.

\------

_ Who is she to do this? _

_ Why is she like this? _

_ Why am  _ I  _ like this? _

He opens his eyes against  _ white _ , and promptly closes them again. Some broken noise claws out of his throat, leaving a raw itch behind. Someone turns, blurs and darkens the awful white that makes its way through his eyelids as bloody red-orange.

“Ah, you are awake.” It sounds like he’s listening through a pool of some liquid, and every offbeat breath feels too heavy. He manages to open his eyes and notes the bizarre almost-fisheye lens effect he’s looking through. It's like he’s peering through a tube from the inside, and he doesn't much like it.  _ Everything  _ seizes up and he struggles in a breath, lungs filling with nothing but liquid lead. A scream turns into a pitiful burble and he  _ panics,  _ spectacularly, limbs flailing and hitting thick walls. Tubing pulls and he immediately settles down, the pain howling up and down his nerves. He curls into the shape of an unborn child, limbs clutched tight as he sobs mutely through the viscous fluid. The doctor is writing, making notes of his pain. A familiar face steps in and he squashes his forehead against the wall, wanting to see her clearly. She gives a bare-toothed, mirthless smile, touching the clear  _ whatever-this-was _ over his face. Her hand is so beautiful (why is he thinking this) and so close; he wants to kiss her knuckles, to nuzzle his blunt face into her palm. It makes the pain ebb away and he almost feels tired.

“M’sleepy,” he manages through everything in his lungs and throat, and she traces the shape of his face.

“Then rest. You will be okay soon.” He nods slowly and leans back, closing his eyes and thankful when the lights go away.

\------

He coughs.

He  _ coughs. _

Something clear and bitter comes up, spilling out of his mouth as he gags, vomits  _ more _ clear. It burns in his throat, eyes welling up at the itch, and he drags in a breath, body jerking horribly as he throws up again, still nothing but clear. It tastes like hand sanitizer and looks about the same; he mutely wonders if his eyes are bloodshot from it. A cold hand smooths over his spine, between his shoulder blades. It’s comforting and he looks up, managing a weak croak.

“Shh-shh-shh,” tuts the person, fingers splaying out and gently massaging over the bumps of his vertebrae.

“Wadah,” he gets out, and a small chuckle makes his whole body shudder as if it's cold.

“Yes, it's me. I'm here.”

For some reason, her presence soothes him. It feels  _ right _ somehow.


	4. Relief 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 1 of a two-part drabble.

Widowmaker strides into the dim medical room, nursing a gash over her arm and various other grazes and bumps. Reaper is there, tying his arm off. A nurse comes over to her, applying some disinfectant. The burn of the chemical against the open injury makes her lip curl, and she decides to watch her partner to distract off the pain.

“Reaper?” He doesn’t look up, ducking his head in shame.

“Hello, Spider,” he mumbles, all the typical benevolence gone from his voice. He sounds raw, tired. The nurse follows her gaze to the ghost, smiling slightly.

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“He is my partner and teammate,” the sniper replies curtly, shooting a derisive look to the caretaker.

“You’re dodging the question,” comes the retort, but both go silent at a dangerous noise from the mercenary halfway across the room. He’s looking over at them, head tipped to them warningly. Widowmaker lowers her gaze and closes her eyes a moment, allowing the nurse to work in patching her arm up. There’s soft clinking and the sniper looks back up, watching metal talons clink around a glass vial of what looks like faintly glowing liquid gold. He gives the bottle a once-over, then abruptly sprouts a third hand, lifting a syringe. He hesitates, looks to Widowmaker; the woman says nothing, watching him mutely as he sighs, rolling his neck a bit. The syringe is pushed into the vial, plunger carefully lifted, drawing the honey-like substance in; he pulls it out and sets the container aside after ensuring it was filled to the required amount. His claws _ tap-tap-tap _ against the glass body of the syringe and he gently pushes it up until a viscous drop flows out. He looks to Widow again, shoulders dropping apologetically while the third hand fades back into him.

She’s staring.

He winces and stuffs the needle into the protruding black line running like a river through the crook his arm, hissing an inhale through his teeth and dropping the plunger. Faintly, the fluid makes his decaying vein  _ glow, _ and the limb flushes with life and color. The tourniquet is snipped off with his free hand, claws cutting it right off. The life and color flows up and he’s shaking again.

She can’t help but think  _ Gérard used to shake like that. _


	5. Gold 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dont shoot up with reaper

It’s been a month.

Reaper is looking progressively more like something raw out of a child’s worst nightmares, features spilling out of his hood as he falls apart into a cloud of black without any corpses to reset himself with.

Sombra is elsewhere, but keeps in touch, calling or messaging when she’s struck with the mood to talk with the two.  _ How’s Europe? _ She asks.  _ How’s the hunting? _

Widowmaker is tired of the questions.

Reaper, even moreso.

“Do you ever stop talking?” He snarls, teeth grit in irritation. Widow can see the stuttering tic in his almost indiscernible jawline.

“Why Reaper, I thought you enjoyed talking to people? Or is that just applied to Widowmaker?” There’s a sinister sweetness about the words, and he’s about to retort when he’s interrupted by a coughing fit. Black wads of lung-matter and smoke come up, thick and wet. He has to stop walking altogether, doubling over as ferrofluid-blood sprays from his trachea. The sniper stops and gapes, watching him straighten and knuckle his lips, the back of his hand coming away shiny and wet.

“I’m fine,” he gurgles, resuming walking as if nothing had happened.

“You coughed up blood,” the sniper points out, grabbing his dampened hand to look at it. It blurs and flexes in her grasp, hardly able to properly reform. “That gold,” she says suddenly, Looking up at the darkened sockets set into his mask.

“Gold?”

“The liquid you injected yourself with a little while ago.” Se pointed to the spot, brushing a finger over the faint outline of the vein. He sags, hand going lax.

“Widowmaker-” he starts, and she flinches in preparation for more wet coughing. Instead, he gently touches her hand, talons so soft  they don’t leave even thin lines. “...I have some in the safe house,” he whispers, “I’m sorry you had to watch me do that.” The words fade from her conscious as soon as she hears them, what sticks is the way his mess of a face sags, eyes drooping half-shut and fluttering slowly. He wilts slightly under her gaze, turning his face away in shame.

“Reaper?” She feels her eyes go wide, free hand coming up to almost instinctively cup the seething black under his hood. He sighs and watches her, allowing the contact, if only because he doesn’t mind her touch.

“Yes?”

“What it?” She stops, winces at her imperfect English, and tries again. “What was that gold?”

“The same nanomachine fluid Mercy uses, and used, to fix me and others. It helps reset my machines if I haven’t had a corpse in a while. It can’t completely replace it, but it’s a helpful substitution.” She nods slowly, looking down at the way their hands are laced together gently.

Like lovers.

Some part of her decides that it doesn’t mind touching him like this.


	6. Mission

The meeting is duller than usual.

Until  _ he _ shows up, at least.

His mask is gone, face a mess of black and red; four eyes are fixed at pretty angles and a curved mouth sits just under them. She looks to him silently, watches the way he drops into the seat carelessly and leans forward to rest his elbows on the long table.

“Spider,” he rasps, a crooked grin written into the dark of his face.

“Reaper,” she replies, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards for half-a-second. “You appear to be in good condition.”

“I've never felt better than I do now. Whatever they pumped me full of has got to be liquid magic.” He grins, face split from side to side by an impossibly wide mouth, the small, tidy lips peeled back to show jagged, shattered-glass teeth set in dead, grey gums. The four angled eyes squish up comically, squinting in dark delight.

“Then you are ready for our next mission?”

“Beyond ready.”

“Good,” is all she says, amber eyes slanting back over to the presenter who is staring openly at the abomination she’s grown close to.

\------

“ _ Un, deux, trois, _ ” she says into the comm, earning a humming reply of static. “Reaper.”

“Yes, Spider?”

“ _ La fille, _ ” she says, distastefully.

“Oxton is down, if that’s what you're worried about.” He sounds giddy, the grin audible over the low quality of the comm-audio.

“Good.” She settles again, mind numbing itself as she focuses, thinking everything and nothing at once. It becomes too easy, without the chronally-impaired brat pestering her.


	7. Secret

He’s  _ livid. _ Sombra is hiding something, and it's agitating him. Widowmaker watches when the mask peels off, melting it into smoke and allowing it to rejoin him elsewhere. His face--whatever constitutes his face--is seething with rage. His mess of teeth is bared in a muted snarl, eyes darting over the area as if he's trying to understand how they tripped the alarm, especially with the youthful hacker around. His claws extend, flexing out before curling into his palms again, exposed biceps swelling with every clenched fist he makes. He's just on this side of  _ pacing,  _ and to the sniper’s distaste, Sombra is watching with amusement.

“You caused this,” Widowmaker suddenly says, golden eyes turning up to the other woman.

“Maybe,” she replies with a smirk. Reaper growls, low and guttural and harsh. It sounds like he swallowed broken glass, and the spider flinches visibly at the sound.

“Be quiet,” he snaps, teeth clacking together over the last syllable.

“I am concerned for you!” The sniper retorts, eyes going narrow.

“Your concern is unwarranted,” Sombra says, over his reply. “That thing is just going to be wiped and fixed anyway. Like a musty old laptop that doesn't know when to give up.” Reaper whips around, figure blurring with black. Widowmaker stands, disdain written into her glare.

“Reaper. Come with me. It is better if you do not allow this  _ child  _ to set off your temper.” She turns up her nose and walks out, satisfied when she hears the quiet but weighty sound of the specter’s footsteps following her.


	8. Feed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um hi  
> SIVA grimoire cards are.... a thing.... sorry

“Reaper,” she calls, nudging the corpse. He pools at her feet, slowly standing from the smog.

“Yes?” He rumbles, looking the still-warm figure over. It has a bullet hole neatly placed between two eyebrows.

“Go ahead,” she says, motioning to the body. He takes to it, after a good minute of standing there and staring at her.

“I am not bothered when you feed,” the sniper replied coolly, listening the low, almost inaudible coding written and read a billion times.

_ <consume-replicate-repair> _ fills the air, soft as a whisper. He peels away from the unusable remainders, reforming into a proper shape. He’s reset.

“Why did you watch?” He says softly, touching himself over as if to check that  _ yes,  _ he was more whole.

“You are a machine. But also alive,” she quickly remedies at the withering glare he tosses at her.

“Yes.  _ Why did you watch. _ ” Seems they both apply repetition to get their point across. The words feel empty, useless; the set of his shoulders, the way he draws himself up to his full height says more to her.

“I was interested in how it worked,” she lies, eyes going half-shut as he peers at her from the black of his hood.

“Spider,” he growls, growing much closer in one long step. She doesn't flinch this time, despite having jerked defensively in the past. They stare each other down, his head bowed slightly to see her closer to eye level. She takes a moment to let her eyes slide over the slope of his shoulders, following the curved way he holds his arms even while relaxed.

_ It places emphasis on the claws, makes them seem even more curved and deadly than they are. _ She remembers him telling her about it. How everything he does--down to his very  _ breathing _ \--is designed to force out the animal-fear rooted in everyone. She has had this part of her removed; his tricks and plays do nothing to her. Not anymore. He tips his head, four eyes slanting into relaxed ruby slits, mouth twisting into a wry grin.

“You cannot fool me,” he rumbles, low and impossibly deep.

“Maybe not. But I can annoy you.” She smirked and walked past him, feeling the way his gaze bores into the back of her head. The snarl is like music to her ears as she flicks out her grappling hook, leaving him in the bare yellow light of sodium lamps.


	9. Kill for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> likely the closest thing to "romance" i'll write for these two. We'll see, though.

There’s impatience buzzing about in the air, in the way the Talon mooks shuffle about every few seconds, anxiety in the sets of their shoulders, the angles of their postures. Widowmaker holds none of this anxiety, still and quiet in the train. Heat pools against her back, tickling across exposed skin before reforming into her partner.

“You are impatient too?” She asks to the air, not bothering to look back at him. She doesn't need to.

“Yes. I do not like the moments of calm before the storm,” he growls, voice harsh against the otherwise quiet of the cabin. A couple of cronies crane their necks, red-covered eyes turning to them to stare at the way they fit together. His chest sets neatly to her shoulder, her elbow fitting to the hourglass of his hip; she smirked inwardly at the thoughts that follow, of the slow tender moments they hide.

“Reaper,” one of the nameless idiots speaks up, waving a little. The mask tilts his way, leather rustling against itself.

“Can I help you?” Its stated less like a question and more like an irritated demand. The corpse might be a mercenary himself but he still had thin patience when working with these incompetents that Talon hired to fill out the ranks.

“Yeah. You and Widow-bitch dating?” A dreadfully low chuckle, and the man screams, armor collapsing a moment after. The air buzzes,  _ alive _ with energy now. He hadn’t even hardly changed shape and yet had managed to kill the trooper in seconds. His teeth are grit around his words and she almost finds it sweet that he’s ready and willing to kill for her.

“Anyone else care to insult your superior?” She lets her eyes droop half-shut, amusement in the way her shoulders relax.

“Ah Reaper, you hapless romantic,” she says softly, the back of her hand making a hardly-audible sound as it lightly hits to his heavily armored front.


	10. Shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> torture. dunno how bad to label it, but be warned.

She taps her fingers against her knuckles in muted agitation as she watches the way he nearly shatters at the arc worming across his torso. Thick fog pools and rolls, quickly being drawn back in at another shock before oozing off again. The two men around him are wearing full hazmat gear; he could thread himself into their clothing and under their masks otherwise. His hands are together over his head, folded as if he’s in fervent prayer to some higher power--impossible, he’d stated he was atheist in the past. The metal binding him shrieks in protest at the black eating at it, shearing away layers at a time as his body searches for an escape out of raw survival instinct. She knows during times like this he’s not-quite-human anymore, toeing the brink of ferality out of sheer desperation. She’s met him after these periods, when he crawls back into his cloak and hides behind his mask, when he doesn’t talk, doesn’t think; sometimes it brings a slow sort of fear--as if it’s halted by the way her heart refuses to pump it around. She shakes the thought off with a shudder, the men finally stopping and leave him be. He’s shaking himself into smog.

“You’re allowed in,” one says, cold calculations in the way his mouth quirks up on one side, in the way his eyes narrow at her.

She ignores him and goes in, stepping right up to her freak of a partner. The outline of his hood turns away, shoving up against his bicep as his chest heaves for breath. He’d been screaming, even if she hadn’t heard it. She looked back to the one-way pane, briefly. It stung her frozen heart to see her teammate like this. He said nothing of course, but jerked back and gave a high, shrill noise when she touched the blurred shape of his chest.

“Shh-shh-shh,” she soothed, blue hands gently smoothing over his torso. His whole figure is stuttering in and out of human shape, shaking like a beaten dog faced with affection. Faintly, she hears his voice, barely a hoarse whisper.

“I’m sorry.”


	11. Petty

He looks more strange without his cloak than he does with.

His hands seem too-large, no longer offset by the slope of his shoulders and hood. Claws lengthen his fingers, soldered onto his skin by means she doesn’t want to think about. He’s got a scarf, grey and drab, coiled around his neck thrice. He’s got a secondhand faux-leather coat with a downy inside thrown over his broad shoulders, deadly hands tucked away in the matted fuzz of the pockets. The hood is pulled up as a substitute for his cowl, and his face, ridden with black and red, doesn’t fit with the normalcy of his outfit. She smiles to him again, one slender arm looped through his, other gripping a bag of treats from a store she likes. Her hair is down, a mid-sleeve tee and vest-jacket pulled around her torso as a bit of warmth, even if the cold  _ doesn’t _ bother her. People look at them sometimes, but he doesn’t seem to notice the odd looks he gets.

“Anywhere you want to go, Gabriel?” He seems a little bewildered at first, then looks to her, four eyes slitted in red.

“Gabriel-”

“Is dead, I know. So is  Amélie. But I like that name.”

“I don’t use it anymore.”

“You reacted to it,” she points out, and he looks to her, giving her that dissatisfied expression he has when arguing with the leaders of Talon.

“I don’t call you by  _ that name, _ ” he growls, pulling his arm away from hers and hanging back to brood. She sighs and keeps walking, touching the spot where he was holding her, already missing the warmth.

“Is there anywhere you want to go or not?”

“You spent enough of my money,” he snipes, shoulders pulling up aggressively.

“So we’re going home?”

“I don’t care. The staring isn’t what’s pissing me off.” He shoots a pointed glare to some passers-by who jolt and look away. She sighs again, breath hardly fogging the air as she slows to meet with him. 

“Reaper-”

“Don’t  _ Reaper _ me, Spider. You overstepped a line.” She almost winces at the near-bark, feeling her stomach turn.

“I wanted to apologize,” she retorts, patience quickly running out in the face of this stubborn idiot. “You know my empathy is wrong.” The somewhat subpar english she’s speaking doesn’t faze either of them, and he stops, bringing her to halt as well.

“I don’t give a shit if you can’t feel empathy, Widowmaker. You should know by now that I don’t like being called by that name. It’s the name of a savior, a good man. I’m a damn monster.” The difference isn’t missed--the way his jaws snap over the air, teeth half-bared in a threat just emphasizes it. She narrows her eyes at him, rocking back on her heels.

“You’re being childish.”

“Am I,  _ Amélie? _ ” He sneers, but she doesn’t externally react.

“We’re going home.”

“Damn right we are.” He folds his arms, turning away from her as she gets them a way to the nearest base.


	12. sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i'm still a noob to french so tell me if my grammar's shit

It’s just the two of them closed up in the safe house, someplace in southern Germany that Widowmaker can hardly pronounce around her accent. It’s a small compound, enough room for a handful of high operatives and about 50 mooks--of course, it shuffles around with who gets stuck in, but right now it’s just a pair of walking corpses.

Reaper gurgles something unintelligible to her as he walks in, shuffling around in a blanket and a pair of pajama pants. He’s a mess of sprawling limbs and black-steel-red is stuttered around like a van Gogh painting. She treads over, offering a newspaper.

“ _Tu lis le journal?_ ” she murmurs, watching one constantly-shifting hand take it slowly, half his eyes swivelling up to fix on her.

“I like it when you speak French around me,” he mumbles, sounding rather wet in the throat--he also misses her meaning entirely. “It sounds so much nicer in your mouth than English.” She flashes a bare-toothed smile for half a second, then gently reaches up under his chin, fingers easing against the sides of what must constitute his windpipe. She’s not a doctor, but she remembers when Gérard got sick, he’d get swollen lymph nodes in his throat. She only faintly remembers this--the sensation of the thickness, the ragged way he breathed; absently, she supposes it’s the same manner of memory she has of him after a lot of coffee drinking, shuddering his way through his work during peak times.

“You are sick,” she says simply.

“Corpses don’t get sick.” A half-dozen eyes track her movements, backing away to dig around a cabinet.

“People from Los Angeles do, especially in this climate.” He stares, and she feels the way his eyes stop jerking about, sliding to fix on her she same way she sights a kill.


	13. Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't.... really like this one.... it doesn't feel as flowing as the others. i needed to write something and get my thoughts down though, so have this vague trash

Sombra watches the way his breath mists out through the v-shaped nose of his mask. He doesn’t acknowledge her staring--not at first at least. After a moment his head pivots, swivelling to meet her gaze as the mask disintigrates, showing the twisted meld of features taking up his hood.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. Why do you breathe? You are a machine.” He opens his maw to answer, but stops, inhales, and closes his mouth. She cocks her head, a smirk quirking one corner of her mouth up. “It’s true, though, Reaper. You’re lots of little machines all mashed together. No different than an Omnium.” Her tone is scathing, sickeningly sweet. He looks queasy and sways when they go over a bump. Widowmaker isn’t here to protect him, and she’s going to find a way to get under his skin, rip his artificial heart out and crush it underfoot.

“Sombra,” he starts, head tipping back, “Please don’t. I’m not in the mood.”

“You think I care,  _ pendejo? _ ” She slides closer, head tilting slightly. He’s so easy to bother, it’s actually funny. He doesn’t say a peep, but the boiling way his face churns, armor and cloth rustling at movement, says he’s on the edge of attacking. He looks away, eyes turning to her, and lets out a slow breath.

“I swear on a stack of bibles if you keep this up I will get ejected from Talon because I fed off you.” She bats her eyelashes, smirk curling into a savage grin.

“You were never a religious man,  _ Reyes. _ Don’t try to fool me with that nonsense. You won’t eat me because you like me too much.”

“I don’t like you that much.”

“You wound me.” She pouts and lightly bops his chest. Her eyes go wide in rare terror, though, as her wrist is gripped by a third hand jutting from the center of his chest. He turns his head back to face her, eyes ablaze in red.

“Do not underestimate me,  _ brat. _ I will not hesitate to end you.” He squeezes her hand painfully, hissing lowly in pleasure at the way her face wrenches up, then lets go and sucks the hand back into himself with a sickening, wet sound.


	14. Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so crossovers are a thing :,)  
> please excuse this short bullshit i wrote to try and get myself going

She smiled dully to him, offering a hand. He takes it with obvious hesitation, glittering talons shining in the dull light. She helps him to his feet, watching the way he straightens, eyes staying half-closed. There’s four, sharp red and baring slitted pupils. He’s tall, lots of length to his limbs. She’s built similarly, lanky and slender.

“So. You are not my partner.” The hood turns to her when she speaks, sloping forward and peering at her in a slow, thoughtful way. Those eyes slowly go hooded at her, and he turns, a rumble bubbling out.

“Not your partner…? Why, of course I am.” He leans back, and she stares at the way the smoke behind him  _ moves, _ sloping low and coiling tighter.

“You are not Reaper,” she clarifies, eyes going narrow. He grins, teeth collected like a broken zipper that still fits together despite the jagged, crooked arrangements.

“Not Reaper, not exactly. I am his predecessor, his inspiration… as well as his remains. The line has been blurred between Death and Reaper.” She doesn't move despite the goosebumps she feels from that haunting voice that seems to  _ breathe _ words.


	15. Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for substance abuse
> 
> THIS WAS FUN TO WRITE... /lays down

She finds him standing, staring blankly out at nothing. She comes up behind him, to the side; the angle provides her line-of sight with the cigarette hanging loosely from his thin lips. As she watches he exhales, smoke curling from his mouth slowly. His arms are folded loosely, and his posture is that of a man with too much time to think.

“Hello, Reaper,” she says slowly, watching the way he doesn't react, besides shifting his mouth slightly.

“Hey,” he grunts, more smoke following the syllable.

“Don't you know that's bad for not just you, but others?” He looks to her finally, eyes sliding from their place fixed on air.

“I don't give a shit.” She watches him a long moment, the way he closes his lips and inhales, the way his four eyes jump between both of her own.

“Why not?”

“Pain. Sounds sappy, but I'm in pain. I'll do what I can to get rid of it.” She steps to join him, arms folded against the brisk air, leaning her weight onto her heels. He turns his gaze back out, pulling the thing from his lips and tapping it off before slipping it back in place. He sounds weary, too much thought and not enough mindless work. He’ll accept busywork in a heartbeat, which she always found odd--now that she sees him like this, it almost makes sense. He just wants to stop thinking.

“So you smoke?” She finally asks, looking to him. He’s got a coat on, one almost like his typical cloak but less militant and shorter.

“Yeah. Dulls everything a little.” He sighs softly, breath fogging the air with toxins. “You know… quiet’s a soldier’s worst enemy. It gets in your head, allows you to stop and think.”

“Was Overwatch quiet?” There’s a long beat, Reaper taking another drag.

“No. Blackwatch was, though.”

“Do you think Talon is quiet?” She looks to him owlishly, golden eyes blinking slowly as he rolls the question around in his head.

“Too quiet,” he answers after a moment, shaking his head. “I don't do what I do for no reason, Spider. I smoke and take too many pills and things like that because I can't stand quiet. At least those kill my thoughts and demons in between missions.”

“Demons?” She touches one bulky arm gently, tracing the folds in the fabric with a fingertip. She is like a child in these moments, asking him questions and just enjoying the company, however moody and brooding he may be.

“Yeah. English metaphor. Means the dark things that plague your head. Suicide, war, lying. Shit like that.” She scrunched her face up with thought, looking up to him again. He seems so tired and bitter. Now that the idea arose, she couldn't remember of the last time he expressed any real positive emotion, instead using sarcasm and anger to deflect others.

“I'm sorry,” she says softly, and he looks surprised, eyes widening a little as he looks to her again.

“What for?”

“I'm sorry I can't make you feel better.” He stares at her a moment, and she feels very small all of a sudden. He has a good two inches on her and likely close to a hundred pounds in weight over her. His gaze feels even heavier. He lets out a long breath and drops his arms; she winces when his hands come up, clad in leather and mesh, claws fused into his skin. They touch her face, hot as a furnace to her--it makes her hand jump to his wrist when he slowly smooths them down her neck, claw-tips light as feathers. Not once does he move to choke or cut her, even though both would be easy. Instead, he drops the cigarette, stepping on it as he moves closer, very delicately tipping her chin up; she watches the way his head comes down, forehead nearly resting to hers. His hands move from her neck, thick arms slowly wrapping around her--so slowly, as if he thinks she will flee like a startled bird--and pull her into his comforting warmth, lightly pinning her to his broad chest. She can taste the bitter nicotine on his breath, each slow inhale and exhale that sound a bit ragged, as if his lungs were protesting his unconventional painkilling. He's so close and so gentle, and she lets her head drop against his shoulder, face almost in his neck at this angle. He smells like a forest, rife with rotting trees and leaves but also the clean scent of plants and rain, warm soil filled with creatures.

“I'm sorry too, Widowmaker. Sorry for a lot of things.” She closes her eyes, listening to the agonizing silence in between breaths.

“It's okay, Reaper. I think that's why we stay together despite everything. Because sorry people like to stay close to one another.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he rasps, angling his head up to look at the drab grey of the sky. 

It feels fitting.


	16. Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tooth-rotting fluff incoming, brace yourselves for cuddly death, snuggle spider and hugging hacker

**** Reaper’s already on the transport by the time they step in. Sombra’s right behind her, and slumps into the seat beside the ghost. Widowmaker follows suit and sits on the other side of him, leaning against him tiredly. He says nothing, instead draping his arms around them and slowly drawing them close. Sombra nestles herself into his side comfortably, pulling her legs up to curl up tighter. Widowmaker merely leans her head back, resting it to his shoulder.

“Long day?” He says automatically, ensuring both of them are comfortable for the trip to the nearest base.

“You were there,” Sombra says, pouting a bit. He grunts in affirmation.

“I wasn't with the two of you, though. You both look to be in one piece, at least.”

“Just some bruises and scrapes,” Widowmaker explains, cutting off a jab from the hacker opposite her. He grunts noncommittally, tipping his head to rest it on top of Widowmaker’s, ignoring the way her helmet juts into his temple.

“Rest,” he growls, warming the two up with his furnace of a body.

“Not tired,” the youngers grumbles, but goes quiet when he lifts his head, mask tipping to her menacingly.

“ _ Rest, _ ” comes the repeated growl, and the hacker finally closes her eyes, settling her face against him. Widowmaker does much the same and he settles his head back against hers, giving a bassy rumbling to accompany his comforting body heat.

“Never would’ve guessed  _ la mort _ would be such a good cuddler,” Widowmaker teases, resting a hand on his belly. He merely grunts and squeezes her gently, pausing his rumbling briefly to speak.

“Very funny. You get some rest too.”

“Very well, Reaper,” she says, allowing her eyes to droop shut.


	17. Protect Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a continuation on "kill for me"  
> i've had a rough past few days, writing-wise; i feel lucky to have even gotten this much down.  
> sorry for not updating sooner

She slants her head, resting her cheek to the Widow’s Kiss and letting her breathing settle. She murmurs something in her first language, a phrase to soothe herself into a steady shot. There’s a _ fwip _ though, and she jolts from her relaxed posture to stare at the arrow not a meter from her. Heavy footsteps come from the other side and she jumps to her feet, feeling a bit alarmed when the crusader-armored giant comes stomping up. He barks and she hardly manages to grapple herself up, swinging and dropping back behind him. She can only move so quickly on the ground however, and one massive suit of armor launching itself at her is too fast for her to react. Something pulls her feet out from under her and she winces as she falls, missing the charging soldier by a breath. She’s dragged off the ledge, pulled down through the air and padded on a thick mass of black. It swarms over her, a hundred-thousand tiny tendrils searching her over briefly for injuries. When they are content they flow back into the mass, which swiftly carries her back into a small alleyway. She looks around as it rushes along the ground, feeling as if she were riding in some strange smog car. She’s set on her feet shortly after she manages to parse this thought, pushed upright by a glob of black. She stumbled only slightly--years of ballet--and turned to face it as it shaped, reforming into Reaper. He looks her over and growls, throat sounding as if he swallowed ground glass. She blinks and stares at him, the way his not-quite-face spills out, smearing into the air and distorting it. He looks back to her, a half-dozen eyes crinkling slightly.

“Stay safe,” he says simply, before melting again and leaving her in the alleyway.


	18. Eager

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some cursing, not too close together though

She feels his breath on her neck before she actually sees him.

It makes her shoulders hike up defensively, body twisting and leaning away all in one motion. Her face wrinkles up and he tips his head, watching her like a cat might watch a mouse. She sees the agitation in the set of his shoulders, the grip on his shotguns; her eyes flick over the details of his posture before returning to the empty sockets in his mask, which angles down in a glare.

“Where is he.”

“He? Who?” She doesn't like the bite in his tone, and narrows her eyes.

“The old fuck.” He looks away, down across the road snaking under their perch. She scoffs and drops the scope of her rifle, retracting the barrel as she straightens, shaking her head. 

“There are lots of those in Overwatch. Be more specific.” He snarls and flares briefly, outline growing blurry with smoke.

“Morrison,” he spits, venom coloring his voice.

“I haven't seen him.”

“Then McCree.”

“He is with the payload.” She squints at the mask when it pivots toward her again.

“You saw him, then?” 

“Clearly. Why are you so adamant about finding Morrison?”

“I want to smear his brains on the pavement,” the ghost gurgles, blurring even further. Rare to see him like this--so desperate to land a specific kill that he forgets to hold human shape. She doesn’t make a face despite the innate disgust at the mental image his words bring--a ruined corpse, pockmarked with injury, head little more than paste leftover from a point-blank shot. He grins, mask gone, cheeks unzipping into a savage set of jaws that sprawled into the air, jagged teeth bared. “You hate me for that, don’t you?” He teases, swelling slightly and diluting himself.

“Hate is no longer a part of me,” she replies coolly, and he drags himself down into something close to human, cheeks and lips still missing and flaunting off a set of weighty teeth. She watches the way eyes burn, peeling themselves into reality, only to fade and close a few seconds later. The shotguns are gone and he rakes the air slowly with fingers that look like a surrealist’s bad dreams.

“I’ll kill them all,” he mutters, more to himself than her. She points, his eyes following the motion clumsily, bobbing around his head.

“Payload is that way,” she says simply, and he looks to her.

“Thanks.” With that, he burbles away in a river of black smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a small, sad little announcement.  
> I'm going to put this on hiatus for a brief period :C  
> I'm sure you've noticed delayed updates--that's mostly because of schoolwork. I'm going to work through the next couple of weeks, then have a break for the holidays; I'll happily return to this series then!  
> I hope you all understand c:


	19. Mourn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that xmas comic amirite?

The air is frigid, biting even. No one is here but her. She has her head bowed, torso wrapped in a dark coat of fur. The rose resting delicately across the headstone is peppered with tiny white speckles, and she watches as more fall, cluttering the marble. The name fills in with snow, and the rose is dusted in a thin covering, along with the ground. She knows her shoulders are flaky with the white as well, and she lifts her head briefly to dust herself off. That's when she feels it--a cold unease running up her spine. A cursory glance around gives no information and she narrows her amber eyes, dark brows pulling down and creasing her forehead ever-so-slightly. She knows she’s being watched. She turns, sharp-toed boots making a light sound as she does. There’s a strangely dark shadow under a nearby tree, and it only grows darker. She glances toward the sky; it's just as grey and dreary as it usually is in wintertime. The shadow solidifies, and she feels her breath leave her in a light puff of fog. Reaper stands there, distant enough to be respectful but close enough she can see the apprehension in his posture. He stares at her, like a stray animal watching people go by with bags full of groceries and food. She folds her arms, tucking part of the sleeves of her too-large coat up under her arms as she eyes him, waiting for him to come closer. He doesn't move from his crouched position, one hand settled to the ground.

“Reaper,” she finally calls, beckoning to him. He stands slowly, and stalks closer, but it’s a tense, almost sideways walk. A rifleman’s walk. Heel-to-toe, each step is fluid and leaves the rest of him almost unmoving. Once he's about a meter and a half away, he stops, shoulders lifted slightly. He's still apprehensive.

“Yes?” He croaks, and she flashes some semblance of what she hopes is a friendly smile. Instead of lightening up he tips his head down, mask angling, growing darker under his hood.

“What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since we were given leave. Are you well?”

“I'm fine.” She blinks at his two-syllable answer to only one of her questions, and rocks back slowly onto the slightly elevated heels of her boots. 

“That only answered one of my questions,” she points out, to which he scoffs lightly, mask stuttering as he jerked back minutely.

“I hadn't noticed.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No.” The word is grit out sharply and she wrinkles her nose up at him.

“Clearly not,” she says, figuring scathing sarcasm would get him to open up. He merely makes an annoyed sound, shoulders and legs blurring and flexing with the wind.

“I came to check on you,” he finally bites out, and she raises an eyebrow, rearranging the scarf around her neck.

“That's actually rather thoughtful of you. Very out-of-character.”

“Shut up.” He growls, folding his arms defensively. He's gone from halting and unsure to agressive and walled-off in record time. Something really is up, and Widowmaker intends to find out exactly what.

“Walk with me,” she says simply, not giving him a chance to verbally defy her before she turns and starts walking. He grumbles something derogatory under his breath, but she merely chuckles and grabs his armored wrist once he catches up with her.


	20. Starving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Older writing I decided to pull forward. As usual, tell me if something's wrong.

Reaper was quieter than usual. Widowmaker didn't bring it up--usually if she did it meant either a reprimand, or foolish, head-on attack from the spectre. But it was  _ disconcerting. _ He didn't make a noise, besides what sounded like almost-silent whispering, or alien hissing. Smoke was oozing out of the openings in the owlish mask he sported, flowing like thin, inky water over his chest.

“Ah, Reaper,” she said after a moment, bothered enough she could tolerate some scolding.

The thing stopped, tipping its hidden face to her.

“ _ Est-ce que vous vas bien? _ ” The French flowed out with ease, and it drew out an animalistic sound from the dead man.

“ _ Hungry _ ,” came the bubbling hiss, lava over cold water. That shocked the emotionless assassin. Normally, his voice at least held a vague semblance to human speech, and  _ normally _ he didn't actually bother to answer her, instead tutting at her like some disappointed parent. She tried to think back, realizing he hadn't fed at all in at least a few months. That meant he was toeing the line of ferality, edging into an uncomfortable territory of hunger that could only be sated by feeding off the living as if he were some undead leech.

“Ah--we will find you food,  _ mon partenaire. _ ”

“ _ No. Not food.”  _ Again with the ghastly hissing and gurgling. She was lucky to have caught him in this state before to learn what he meant.

“Yes, I know. Souls.”

That elicited a disgusting noise, like flesh squelching as it was ripped from bone. It was a noise of pure delight and she couldn't stop the way her nose wrinkled at the sound. She watched with a twinge of some unrecognizable sensation as clawed hands came up, peeling away the solidified nanomachines and artificial bone that made up his mask. What looked to be about a hundred tiny red eyes, each no bigger than the head of an average screw, took up half his face. Each had a pinprick of black that stuttered around before fixing on her. Seemingly nonexistent lips peeled back from jagged white needle-teeth in a savage grin, and he let out another noise that would incite vomiting in a regular person.

“ _Cannot feed. You are dead._ Soulless.” The French woman watched this hellspawn straighten slowly to a looming height of close to two meters, almost taking his time as he turned to one of the goons with the pair. Each of the three more or less useless soldiers looked sick to their stomach.

Reaper went to them slowly, drifting along as little more than arms and clawed hands with a vaguely recognizable hood and that  _ face,  _ if it even counted as one. He presided over each one, whispering more and slowly opening his mouth, only to close it again. He looked like a fish, or a shark; pumping water over its gills or trying to catch a scent.

“ _ Hungry,”  _ he repeated, teeth making awful scraping sounds as he continued to work his jaw over the air. The three quivered and clumped together--big mistake, the assassin mused. The closer together the more likely the spectre was to forgo singling one out, instead feeding on all three to replenish himself.

“ _ HUNGRY,”  _ he repeated yet again, growing impatient and edging into that dangerous, unrestrainable ferality.

The soldiers were native to French, which the spider was thankful for. It was no good to let them die without knowing their fate.

“Laissez-le nourrir.” She murmured, waving two away.

“This one?” The phantom didn't seem to care, eyes torn between looking her over and his new prey.

“Mhm, good. We will still need their help. Take this one. Leave the others. You will feed more soon enough.” The spectre gurgled in pleasure and wrapped around the trooper, who had fainted of terror the moment the icy mist touched him. Those unholy jaws swung open, a gaping maw of  _ black _ letting out a hiss as the soldier was rapidly drained of life, leaving a dusty husk of dead skin draped over dry bones. Reaper pulled away, the hundred eyes congealing into only a dozen, the jaws rearranging into something approaching an earthly creature. He solidified further, leaving less to the imagination.

“ _ Thank you, araignée élégante. _ ”

So he’d taken French classes. Interesting.

“ _ Vous êtes un mort bienvenu _ .” She smiled, a bare expression with no emotion behind it. He did as well, rasping out a laugh that sounded more like something out of a horror movie than anything a real human would make.


	21. zombie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more old stuff. there's a bit of a backlog so.

It was  _ always _ disturbing when Reaper looked close to human. He managed to hit that dip in the uncanny valley without fail, it seemed. Not to mention it meant he'd consumed dozens of souls or more in a  small period of time to be able to hold down his shape even this well. His eyes had an unnatural glaze and color--he really looked like a perfectly preserved corpse, like one of the people they dug out of a bog. His skin had that shiny, black dry gangrene look about it, almost. He was bony and too thin to be healthy, ribs showing, the studs along his vertebrae poking out even when he stood straight. It was like staring down a reanimated, mummified corpse. It made Widowmaker incredibly uneasy, which wasn't a feat everyone could accomplish. A few extra souls, however, would fatten him up; they'd fill in the gaps that showed in his “disguise”, bring life and warmth to his skin, and get those eyes alight with that unkillable  _ fire _ . She liked it, almost, when he looked almost perfectly human again. He had the prettiest eyes and a face so familiar it made her chest feel a bit tight sometimes. Of course, there was no hiding his intent--almost human or barely more than too many teeth, globs of thick smoke, red pinprick eyes, and his haunting mask--he continued existing via what she assumed was sheer force of will and a roaring blaze of hatred for all of Overwatch. She snapped out of her reverie when the walking corpse turned to her, a thin shirt on its frail figure. The rot squirming on his face looked like a mess of burn scars, or like it had been splashed with acid.

“See something, spider?”

“Thinking,” she replied easily.

“About…?” He turned to her fully, joints creaking in protest at the movement. He straightened, baring his teeth at the painful sounding  _ snap _ .

“Fuck,” he said, sounding more bitter than usual.

“Broke your spine?” She said, a note of vague amusement creeping into her voice.

“Yeah. Dammit, it'll take another fifteen minutes to fix it. Just did an  _ hour _ ago. I need more, for crying out loud. I can't stand to be a bag of dry bones.”

“Isn't this your default state?”

“Thank god it isn't. I'm running a bit low. It's a spectrum, spider, not a series of stages.”

“Then why do I always see you looking like a peat bog corpse when you take your armor off?”

“Eloquent,” he sneered at the woman, half-missing lips twisting up in an expression so inherently  _ him, _ “it's because my armor doesn't fuckin’ fit when I'm like this. You seen my thighs normally,  _ puta? _ Tree trunks. Leather doesn't shrink, either. Especially not  _ my _ leather. And until I either feed more or they let me go all Disturbed-Guy on them, I can't do anything.” Widowmaker wrinkled her nose at him. He was a mess mentally and physically, but unfortunately he was right.

“So? We have a mission soon. You can come with me can't you? Even like this?”

“Yeah but I'm not gonna run frontal assault. Don't want to lose my arm again. And--before you ask--it likes to fall off when I'm in this state. Doesn't take much.” To emphasize his point, and to irritate the French lady, he reached up, pulling his entire left arm right off with barely any effort. He waved it at her, grinning crookedly at the disgust written over her face, before popping it back in and letting the flesh restitch together.


	22. Banter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [crawls from grave]  
> here, take this. it's shit but I have like -10 drive to write this so i'm trying to get back into it.

She doesn’t much appreciate the way Reaper hunts. While all but his mask does blend in quite well with the current darkness, his smoky figure makes a sound like ceaseless whispering.

“Would you be quiet?” She snaps into her comm, tapping it in annoyance as if there’s a bug lodged inside. To her dismay, he stops and turns into a miniature dust devil, kicking up a couple leaves on the sidewalk he was drifting over. It only serves to amplify the bothersome muttering. After a moment of irritating her, he solidifies and looks up at the windowsill where she’s perched.

“You wound me, spider,” he growls, jerking his head as the gravelly utterance turns into a snort of amusement. She scoffs and gives a practised roll of her eyes, contemplating shooting him just to put a sock in his dreadful sense of humor.

“We have a mission,” she replies, and shifts her weight to bring the Widow’s Kiss to bear.

“Missions can be fun,” he says with a uncomfortably peppy tone. He walks toward the objective, making some faceless and nameless goon’s head and chest a slimy pinkish paste on the wall he was leaning against. She recoils at the sight and huffs.

“Sombra in place. You ready yet, old man?” Widowmaker is tempted to hit her head to the concrete she’s prone on.  _ Not now. _

“Old man? I’ve got thirty-something years on you and I still kick more ass than you,” Reaper hissed in reply, to which the younger just laughed. He at least shut his mouth and moved to his place--to which the sniper muses that she should be thankful for the little things.

“Sooo,” Sombra drawls, “did you two have fun on your  _ vacation? _ ”

“It wasn't a vacation, Sombra, and you know that.” Reaper snaps. He makes a hideous noise right into the comms, and Widowmaker sighs loudly.

“ _ Mon dieu,  _ do I have to separate you two on the trip back? Or make you hold hands like children?”

“The latter seems like a good way for the resident edgelord, but I would prefer the former,” Sombra replied over Reaper.

“You do not have to babysit us,” he says, surprisingly calm. Odd, she didn’t hear any other gunshots. Even Sombra goes quiet.

“...Should I be concerned? He isn’t this happy unless he’s on a kill ‘em all mission without me around.”

“Concern is perfectly healthy regarding me,” he says, all but bragging.

“You both are insufferable.”

“Says the lady with the arachnid theme,” the hacker retorts.


	23. Volume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaper has a grand ol' time doing chores to loud music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey this ain't bad! had fun writing it :D

Widowmaker cringes to herself at the boom of loud music echoing down the hall. The song is upbeat, at least, so she knows from past experience that it’s a work tune instead of an angry one. The volume increases as she walks to the modern-styled living room. The whirring of a vacuum swallows some of the music, and she hides a smirk behind her hand at the sight of her partner cleaning. He doesn’t seem to notice or care, instead focusing on his chores, bobbing his head along. 

She must’ve slept through most of his working, because the dishes are no longer piled into the sink, nor is the list still hung up on the fridge. He’d also swept and mopped the tile flooring, washed the windows--there may’ve been more that she didn’t see initially. It’s nice, seeing their temporary house cleaned up and in order. 

She steps back out to see him put the vacuum away as the song changes, to something dreadful that makes her wrinkle her nose. He seems delighted to hear it though, inhuman face wrenching up in glee as he takes a moment to dance across the room, grabbing a duster. It’s a short song, and over nearly as quickly as it started. In-between songs, Reaper greets her with a grin and an “afternoon, Spider”. She waves back halfheartedly, watching the quick flicking way he dusts off the television, then the pictures hanging on the walls. It’s amusing when he finishes, tossing the duster back into the basket of cleaning supplies. He flounces his way off to the laundry room as Widowmaker follows, folding her slim arms and smiling halfway when he dances his way through folding the laundry.

“You’re in a good mood today,” she comments, and he gives her a toothy grin.

“Any day’s a good day when the music’s loud enough,” he replies. She nods slightly, taking the folded laundry thrust into her arms. She takes care of it, hanging her shirts and sorting her clothes before returning in time to see her partner finish the laundry, walking back to the living room. 

She continues to follow, nearly laughing aloud when Reaper drops his work to go enjoy a particular song. It’s instrumental--sounds like something out of that old video game he’d taken a liking to; violent and gory as it was. The soundtrack itself was hard not to enjoy, when she thought about it--fast tempo and harshness included. It seemed almost made to get things done to.

It was doing an excellent job, if Reaper’s cleaning binge was anything to go by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! song listy thing for what inspired this:  
> Lux-Friction VIP  
> Moth & Harsh-Falsified Existence  
> Mick Gordon-Rip and Tear  
> [reaper likes doom you can fight me on this]


	24. Drone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao year+ long hiatus and i come back with bad crossover. sorrynotsorry.  
> anyway hot wheels has so much unopened lore and im gunna get my hands messy with it.

“Look. Spider. I trust… all of your eyes. But I know what I saw.” Reaper thrusts his palms out to her, something inscrutable on his face.

“It’s just some Omnic relic,” she brushes him off.

“Then why does the thing that came out of it not look human—or omnic—at all?”

“At all? You just said it ‘wore human skin’ but had glowing insides and had black metal where the skin was pulled back.” She paused in her walk to look at him accusingly, and he briefly drops his face into one oversized hand.

“It wasn’t human. Maybe in the past, or… relative past.” He shrugged, shaking his head. His frustration was simmering up, and he flapped a hand to where they’d come from. “It looks like Doomfist,” he blurted out. Ah. Past frustration, then, and into agitation. Or maybe impatience. She narrowed her eyes, looking up at him in total disbelief. He was harder to read  _ without _ his mask.

“How so?” She finally counters.

“I…” He rocks back, looking away before looking back to her. “Robot arm. It had a robot arm.”

“That Japanese brat in Overwatch has one too. Are you comparing him in this group of supposed look-alikes?”

He flounders under her sudden harshness, and she sighs, smoothing a hand over her hair.

“Reaper, if it look as… alike, to Doomfist, as you say it did, then what says it  _ wasn’t _ him?” He stared at her a moment, as if trying to come up with an excuse, but ends up expelling a soot-colored puff of air instead.

“Fine. But when I’m right…” she shook her head, disregarding the possible half-threat. She turned to resume walking, but was quickly interrupted by a fit of staticky hiccups and screaming over comms. Steady, but distant, crashing and thumping grows suddenly nearer. 

The thing beside her is suddenly armed.

She feels eveything focus razorlikeaway from him—the sound was to her left, in front of her, and she reached to grip Reaper’s leathery gauntlet firmly, nails dug in. He gives no aural indication he noticed it, but heels back for the time being. The crash suddenly explodes in front of them, a shower of steel and drywall pouring out among some other things she couldn’t pull from the visual noise. One thing gets up, the rest doesn’t, and she can feel the radiating satisfaction from the spectre beside her. It does look like Doomfist.

It also lifts its gaze to look to them, a barely contained eagerness flitting over its features before relaxing again.

“Hello,” it says calmly, standing from its hands-and-knees positioning. It casually brushed chunks of drywall off itself, pulling a line of steel beading from its place wedged in a near-comical elbow joint.

“Hi,” Reaper responds, unmoving. She wants to scoff, but settles for glaring up to him instead. It was quieter. She then looked back, into uncanny green eyes and a self-satisfied smirk. She wrinkles her nose; this thing was no better than her coworkers.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the rest of the people are, would you?” It’s the tone of someone asking a child, and she squeezes the heavy wrist still in her grip. It’s a grounding action for both of them.

“No. Why?”

“The why is irrelevant. If you do not have the answer I want, you are useless to me.” It checked itself over once more, turning at a shout.

“Halt. You have done enough damage here.” It’s the imposing shout of Doomfist, who had either seen this coming, or readied at the first slight. The thing drops its shoulders, an unspoken “come on already” in the way it relaxes before going tense again.

“Damage isn’t the only thing I’m after,” it retorts coolly. Dark eyes go to the mess of drywall, a Talon mook laying amongst it. Widowmaker winces inwardly at the sight of rebar jutting up wrong, and the way the white is stained red.

“You’re looking to kill?” Reaper asks, almost timidly. The half machine thing turns slightly, twisting at the waist with this ear-to-ear grin.

“Humanity has grown weak. Weakness is crushed by those superior. And, revenge is always viable.” A disproportionately mild little laugh, before it turns back to Doomfist.

“Why kill humanity? Why not give it a chance to first kill itself and rise from the ash?”

“We watched you grow. Waited. When we crawled out, you tore us down for wanting what you had.” The thing stares at him levelly, but it’s distant, somehow. Reminiscing on memories that don’t belong to it. It sharpens though, grows aware again. “But that’s all made irrelevant, isn’t it?


End file.
